by Diane Haeger
“My brother wishes you to dance with us in the masque he has arranged after supper,” Mary said as she looked at Bess appraisingly. “I had planned to dissuade him for the queen’s sake—family loyalty and all of that. I should not allow myself fondness for one of you, but perhaps exceptions can be made.”
“One of you?” Bess dared to repeat, forced to remember that there were other women besides Katherine in Henry’s life before her, but as the words lay unanswered on her lips, the trumpets sounded the call to dine.
The moment and the question were both lost then as Mary smiled graciously at her before she turned away.
Bess took the seat to which she was directed near the king, though she was not seated directly beside him. That honor went to Cardinal Wolsey. On his other side sat Charles Brandon, returned to prominence now, having been forgiven. Still, the king and Bess watched each other from a distance. It was a seductive dance of flirtation as music, laughter, plumes of candle smoke, and the rich aroma of spiced and cooked meats permeated the air of the beamed and vaulted hall.
As the evening progressed, she would catch Henry’s glance upon her, only to see him run his tongue slyly along his lower lip, smile, then turn to Wolsey with a calm expression. It did not take long for Bess to join the little game. In response, she pressed a bite of lamb between her teeth, letting a bit of the juice drip down her chin. When she knew the king was watching, Bess trailed a finger over her lips, then pressed it into her mouth and let it linger there.
She felt a burst of triumph when she saw him shift in his chair, take a long swallow of wine, then exhale deeply. While Bess was still largely inexperienced, she knew her growing love for Henry made her want to do anything, everything, that would please him. And she would be a swift learner, she had promised herself. Bess Blount longed to be the perfect student.
“My wife was good at the king’s little game as well,” Nicholas Carew said, observing Bess’s behavior. “Pity she does not put that much effort into my desires.”
He put a hand on her knee then, and she quickly slapped it away. “I am still a rake, lovely Bess,” he slurred with a wink. “It is what I do best—that is, at least for now.”
Nicholas, who had never tried anything untoward before, was clearly drunk. Elizabeth was on his other side, chattering away and laughing so loudly with Lady Fitzwalter that she had not heard her husband or seen his advance. Nicholas seemed to see what she was thinking.
“Even if she could hear me, my lovely young wife would not care. I can never be the king, so I can never really matter to her.”
Bess’s glance cut from one to the other of them as the full implications of his words settled upon her, and she felt the heavy burden of an awful realization. The music and laughter were growing increasingly loud, and the aroma of cooked meat was quickly becoming nauseating. She could not have heard correctly. She had put all of her trust in Henry.
“Are you trying to suggest that Elizabeth and the king had more than a court flirtation or perhaps . . . a dalliance?”
“Oh, I am not suggesting it,” he said ruefully. “I am stating it quite boldly, as fact. Jane Poppincourt and then, of course, Lady Hastings before her. Fool girls all thought they could tame the mighty King of England.”
“I do not believe you. His Highness is not like that at all. Besides, Elizabeth would have told me if she had been something significant to him. If she had actually been his”—she felt herself choke on the word—“his mistress.”
“Would she now?” He arched a pale brow and paused for a moment as Bess’s world seemed to stop. The nausea deepened, and the taste in her mouth was sour like bile. She had all along understood that a king took lovers and had indiscretions; she was not that much of a fool after a bit of time at court. But to Bess’s mind, a mistress was something more, and Henry had supported her notion. It implied some element of the heart being involved, an emotional attachment, and the moment she had fallen for Henry, Bess had not wanted to believe he had ever given that to anyone but the queen. “She certainly never told me either.”
“Then how do you know it to be true?” she shot back, anger suddenly pulsing past the shock and nausea.
His blue eyes narrowed upon her, and his words became glacial. “Because the great Cardinal Wolsey came to me himself and ordered me to marry her by command of the king, who had tired of her.”
Carew drained another goblet of wine, then beckoned the steward standing with a large silver flagon behind them. “You see, while the king does play, he knows he must pay. Her father, Sir Thomas Bryan, my friend and now my father-in-law, is too close to our little inner circle not to have made a fuss after the king had her, especially for as long as he did, without her being well married off. Alas, I was available and so duly elected.”
She had never heard Nicholas sound so caustic. This was nothing like the carefree Carew she had come to know. Bess’s head was spinning with dark, dreadful thoughts. That it all could have been so calculated, so unbelievably cold . . . Elizabeth and Nicholas were both so young and golden that Bess had always assumed if it had not been quite a love match, it was at least a sound one between them.
All of her assumptions were tumbling down like cards around her. Elizabeth was not the girl Bess had believed she knew so well, and Henry had openly lied to her about having taken mistresses. The thought doubled around in her mind: An occasional lover was one thing, but a mistress—a true lover who had one’s heart and who was steady and constant—was a very different thing.
Betrayal arced through her, and the urge to run was very strong. It was almost as strong as the need to vomit—to force up the lies, the deceit, as well as the embarrassment of being achingly naive.
Bess shoved back her tall chair, sprang to her feet, and bolted for the tall carved doors on the other end of the room. She did not know if the king saw her go, and at that moment she did not care. The cradle blanket. . . His brother. . . The piece of his heart she had believed in but never really had . . . Fool, she thought to herself. You are such a fool for believing the fairy tale! As if anything could ever truly be like Lancelot.
It seemed as if everyone was laughing at her as she passed them, although she knew they were not. It was out in the corridor, amid flaming torches that cast golden shadows onto the walls, that Gil found her and drew her forcefully into his arms, letting her sob against his chest. He stood with her like that, completely motionless, a sudden pillar of strength, full of compassion, his long, lean arms wrapped protectively around her until at last he carefully spoke.
“Do you want to tell me?” he asked her in a voice marked with as much compassion as the love he so long and faithfully had felt for her.
“She lied to me. They all did.” The word almost would not cross her lips. “Elizabeth was not just a flirtation or even a dalliance. She was actually the king’s mistress!”
“Yes,” Gil answered simply, but the sound of that single word, the affirmation, held more poison to Bess than any other ever could. She pulled away sharply, her expression full of incredulity directed at this man, her safe harbor, the only person at court she had believed she could fully trust.
“You knew?”
She saw the unmistakable discomfort on his face as his jaw tightened and, for a moment, he closed his eyes, then slowly reopened them. His pained gaze landed unsettlingly once again upon her. “Most everyone did, Bess.”
“Everyone, apparently, but I.”
“You would not have wanted to know.”
“Do you not think I should have made that choice for myself? You, whom I trusted? You, who have been as close to me these years as my own brother?”
“I never wanted to be your brother.”
Both shocked at what he was implying within that single declaration, and so many other revelations just now at hand, they gazed at each other, their conversation at a complete standstill as a young liveried page approached.
“The king is calling for you, Mistress Blount. It is time for the masque.”
As she looked at the young servant, Bess saw that this moment signaled a profound crossroads for her. Dance with the king now and she would belong to Henry VIII, body and soul—no matter the compromise to her soul. Or walk away, and accept the deceptions of her two dearest friends, saving what she could of her dignity but losing the king.
Bess could hear the change of the music down the corridor at the banquet hall. The page held out a mask for her. She must decide. It was too late now for regrets, she realized, as she looked at the delicate mask, white and gold, studded with pearls. It was too late to go back. Her innocence was already lost.
Henry had lied brashly to her. But his life was enormously complicated. There were so many demands upon his every waking hour. Should allowances not be made for that when he was so much more than an ordinary man?
She knew what Gil would say. She knew now what had happened to Elizabeth. But was it not possible that Bess was different to him? That the king could now be different because of her? After all, history was full of magnificent men, leaders, who had been changed by love. The queen, sadly, was not enough for him. But as she stood there then, the mask glittering in her hands, the memory of a dozen romantic tales still dancing in her head, and Gil looming behind her, so symbolic of her other choices in life, Bess had every intention in the world of trying to be just that to the king . . . come what may.
The king sent for her later that night. Bess was taken by two male esquires she did not recognize up a back set of stairs down a dimly lit corridor that smelled heavily of musk and slightly of mildew. Neither man spoke to her as they trod half a pace ahead of her with heavy-footed strides; nor did they speak to each other. One carried a lit candle lamp that only slightly brightened the way. As she walked, Bess’s excitement began slightly to dim in the face of the clandestine nature of their encounter.
Their liaisons had been impetuous, spontaneous, and wholly exciting. Now, as the small rounded door was opened before her, and on the other side the corner of a tapestry pulled back, she realized how fully all of that was about to change. This was a secret door, hidden away, through which she had been brought. Everything about the moment had all the trappings of calculation, planning, and deception. She wondered if Elizabeth had walked through this same door . . . and Jane before her . . . and Lady Hastings before her. For the first time, Bess felt a little shudder of revulsion. Still, it was not enough to change her mind as she was ushered into the king’s bedchamber, lit now by a dozen shimmering and long white tapers placed around the massive tester bed. There was a fire blazing in the hearth beneath a gold crown over the grand stone mantel. When she saw him in his bed, smiling now as he waited for her, Bess’s heart quickened, and the hesitation vanished as instantly as if a bubble had burst.
“I thought of nothing but this moment all evening,” he said seductively as he held out a hand to her.
“Nor I,” Bess replied truthfully, drawing near.
“I am sorry about how you were brought, but in this palace the queen’s apartments are only just down the hall,” Henry explained. Then a smile broke across his square face. “Ah, but then you already know that.”
Snuffing out a flicker of shame, Bess sank onto the edge of the bed, feeling strangely shy all of a sudden. But when he touched her cheek and she leaned against his palm, she felt wanton and full of reckless desire again.
“Here, let me help you with your gown. I think it is high time I see all of you properly, do you not agree?”
It was an odd thing to ask, Bess thought, feeling a bit like a mare being trotted out for bidding. But of course he had not meant it like that. He cared for her. She knew it. She still read each day from the book he had given her; she kept it at her bedside so that it was the very last thing she saw each night and the first thing the next morning.
“I love you,” she could not help softly saying with childlike devotion as he unlaced her gown. “I want so much to make you happy and for you to forget all of the burdens you have, even if it can only be for a little while.”
He ran a fingertip along her bare spine, then kissed the sleek column of her neck. “You do make me forget, Bess,” he murmured. “But love is a fleeting thing. Never let that rule you.”
Henry pressed her forward then, pleasantries abandoned. He straddled her harshly, tossing her dress into a tangled heap on the plush carpet beside the firelit bed. Desire, she thought in response. She was no longer a child or an innocent. Sensual, wicked, yes, wonderful desire. . . Perhaps it would be enough. It might have to be—for now, at least.
“And it would be dangerous to love me,” he warned as he touched the soft rise of her backside just before he reached down powerfully to anchor himself on her slim hips.
“ ’ Tis a bit too late for that, I am afraid,” she breathlessly responded to the king, feeling the glorious, all-consuming force of him.
Katherine knelt beside her own canopied bed, droning out the last of her nightly whispered prayers. Soon it would not be safe for her to kneel. The child inside her would be too big; the risk too great. And she must do absolutely nothing to lose this child, hopefully, a son. Dios mío, let it be a living son this time.
Henry was slipping through her fingertips like water. She knew it was the Blount girl this time. Of course, Katherine had seen it coming, for all of the good it had done. Perhaps the knowing was worse, like seeing a death and being entirely unable to stop it. They did say ignorance was bliss, and perhaps they were right. This was a death of sorts—a death of her love, of her marriage, of a sense of peace for the rest of her life. He was different with Bess than he had been with the others; there was something indefinable about their relationship, yet she knew it was there.
Katherine had fought so valiantly for him, waited so long after Arthur, endured so much. How foolish she had been to believe that if only he married her, made her his queen, she could make him truly happy.
Doña Elvira helped her back onto her feet, then straightened the lace hem of her white muslin nightdress. “How are you feeling? May I bring Your Highness anything?” she asked Katherine in Spanish.
“I am feeling surprisingly well. Perhaps I should not get my hopes up, but this one does feel like a boy, amiga. It has not felt like this since our first child. There is a way he is sitting, low, not at all like my little Mary. That gives me hope.”
“Then pray God it is to be a prince this time.”
Doña Elvira’s tone held reserve, and Katherine heard it instantly, because they did not easily hide things from each other.
“I haven’t many more chances, have I?” Katherine asked in a fragile voice few were allowed to hear.
“That is up to God, Your Royal Highness.”
“But he shall soon stop wanting me if this is not a son. He shall stop trying, and there shall be even more women, or more prominence of place with this one.”
“Our king knows his duty, and Your Highness knows yours. You cannot give up; nor can he.”
“Is she with him now?” Katherine asked, trying hard to keep the tremor from her voice.
“I believe she is.”
“Dios me salve,” she wept, but even Katherine knew that God could not save her from Mistress Blount—at least not until she had run her course, and the next one turned her husband’s eager head . . . or until Katherine gave him a male heir at last and silenced all of her rivals.
“She knows the truth. It seems that great volumes of wine have a way of unlocking Master Carew’s lips,” Gil announced blandly to Elizabeth.
They were alone in the Carews’ small apartment on the second floor with a view past the jewel-shaped, leaded windows down onto a small duck pond by which a flock of birds now flew. Nicholas would not return tonight. They both knew that. When he drank as much as he had that night, Nicholas more than lived up to his reputation as one of the king’s most reckless companions. He was a dreadful husband, but Gil had been her confidant long enough to know Elizabeth was no stellar wife. She had largely rejected Nicholas’s affec
tion, being only acceptably pleasant, in favor of her memories with the king. He waited for the revelation to descend fully on her.
“He told Bess?”
“It was only a matter of time before she discovered it. Where gossip is concerned, this court is an incredibly small world.”
“Has the revelation ended things between them then?” She wanted suddenly to know, and he heard the hopeful tone in her voice.
“Alas, no. If anything, it has seemed to spur her on. Bess has a spark of defiance about her. We should have seen that with our first challenge. I suspect they are together now, since she is not here or in her chamber, as she normally would be.”
Elizabeth Carew gazed out the window into the falling blackness of the night, and Gil could only imagine what she was thinking. But she had brought it on herself, just as Bess had.
What was it about Henry that trumped all logic and reason for a woman, he wondered, even now? Certainly, he was a king, handsome, athletic, musically gifted, and humorous. But he was irrevocably married until death separated him from the queen. Thus, it could only ever end badly for anyone else who came to love him.
“Does Bess hate me, do you believe?” she asked in a broken tone.
“I suspect it is not hate she feels, so much as betrayal. But, of course, upon that I can only guess.”
“You have never betrayed her,” Elizabeth said, finally turning back to look at him standing there in the center of the room, arms limply at his sides while he waited dutifully as he always did for what was meant to come next. He was strong, solid, never wavering.
“No. But then I love her.”
“I love her, too,” she said tearfully. “I am so worried for her, for where this might lead if she stays in this.”
“We both fear for her. But no one can stop her any more than they could have stopped you.”
“The king has a power. I do not quite know how to explain it.” She sighed, her voice full of knowing. “I made some very foolish choices.”
“And yet would you not make them all again?”